


Good Intentions

by Fleur Rochard (fleurrochard), somnolentblue



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Armageddon is Complicated, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Gen, Heaven and Hell, Ineffable Plans, Logistics are Important, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-07-09 03:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19880593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurrochard/pseuds/Fleur%20Rochard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/somnolentblue/pseuds/somnolentblue
Summary: Being a Scrupulous and Exact Account of the Development of an Arrangement Between Michael, Archangel of Heaven, and Beelzebub, Prince of Hell





	Good Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Paraka for hosting!

**Length:** 43:06 min  
**Download:** [MP3](http://fleur.parakaproductions.com/Podfic/Good%20Omens/Good%20Intentions.mp3) (34.6 MB)  
Please right click and "Save As".

*****

There have been many arrangements in the history of the world between beings of all descriptions and antecedents. 

It could be said that coming to an arrangement is the natural state of humanity. After all, humans have formed relationships with a wide array of bacteria, a surprising number of quadrupeds, and, on one very long, dark night over a peanut butter and banana sandwich, Death itself. (Death denies this. One would never challenge Death's own accounting of itself, of course, but one could notice the prevalence of blue suede shoes and sequined jumpsuits in its internet browsing history.) 

However, this is not the case for beings of a celestial origin. One could argue, if one felt so inclined, that they were the control group in the ineffable experiment. Of course, that presupposes all groups weren't the control group. Or the experimental group. And, really, perhaps it is presumptuous to assume there is an experiment.

All of which is to say that Arrangements, for a certain sort of entity, are downright unnatural.

Which, perhaps, makes them ineffable.

*****

The Arrangement started, as they often do, with necessity. 

*****

Michael vibrated.*

*Another might say they hummed, but the reverberations of the celestial spheres were very clearly a vibration. Michael had found it to be precise in one's terminology, lest lakes of glass or extreme salinification occur. 

It was ten years, nine months, and four days until Armageddon, the Final Cataclysm, the End of Times, et cetera, and there was still much work to do. They had so many unanswered questions on their checklist, titled "End of Times -- Preparation Document 2.3.8 (Questions, Unanswered)," and Gabriel felt that there was plenty of time to answer said questions and that now was a time for celebration, not Michael's 'infernal, excuse my strong language but that is how I feel, checklists.'

Michael trusted in the Great Plan, but what Gabriel failed to understand was that Great Plans required Great Preparation, or they came to naught but Great Excuses and Smiting. This was what happened when an angel who blithely announced what would be but never had to deal with the actual execution was put in charge. All angels could see the crystalline branches of what-would-be before them, unfolding fractal paths of inevitability. They didn't see why Gabriel's habit of verbalizing what they could all see to all and sundry made Gabriel more qualified than any of their brethren. 

The particular question vexing Michael at this juncture, number 4,209, was about the location. They all knew that Megiddo was the appointed place, and the appointed time was clear. However, it was more complicated than that. Which quantum frequency should the hosts of Heaven be on in order to meet the hordes of Hell? It would be rather embarrassing should Armageddon be cancelled because the guardian angels and the imps were utterly failing to brawl, having manifested on different planes entirely. 

Michael, Gabriel, their brethren, and their counterparts Down There would manage, of course, but the bulk of the host and horde weren't quite as nimble in translating between the planes of reality. For victory to be truly decisive, they would all have to fight, which would mean they would all have to be in the same blesséd place. 

*****

Beelzebub buzzed.*

*One would be forgiven for wondering if Beelzebub's appellation was a result of zir affinity for buzzing and flies. Beelzebub, of course, would never do the forgiving, but it is best if one forgives oneself after the screaming is done. As a point of fact, the demon predated the invention of flies, and zir name was bestowed by the Lord of Hell.

It was ten years, six months, and fourteen days until the Triumph of Evil and Victory Over Good, and ze had so much work to do. The legions needed to be beaten back into shape, as they had gotten sloppy.* Many had forgotten the most basic of formations, some were challenging over rank, and there were so many requestions for a general's baton that ze was sure they'd have to let the hellhounds cull the ranks a few times to get the numbers back down to a reasonable size.

*One could observe that sloppiness was the natural state of hell-dwellers and hellspawn, given all the ooze and slime and pus and maggots, but that was just a good bit of literal dirt in the gears.

Also, somebeing needed to do the math to balance the ranks of imps, giants, and cambions with the guardian angels. It wouldn't do for the Hordes of Hell to lose because they were outnumbered, and if ze needed to put in a rush order for more infernal offspring or transmuted humans, ze needed to do it soon. However, it also wouldn't do for the Hordes of Hell to grossly outnumber the angelic ranks -- no one wanted to listen to the whinging if the archangels complained that it was an unfair war, and they'd tie Hell's clear victory up in red tape for millennia. This was minor, in the scheme of eternity, but it would still be annoying and delay Beelzebub's ability to enjoy zir retirement. 

Of course, zir most recent spies in heaven had been suborned, leaving zir estimating based on the last reported figures from the fourteenth century. 

*****

In short, our adversaries found themselves in need of information that could only be supplied by the other. Their agents on earth might have been able to provide accurately-inferred intelligence, but they had been working long enough that they were getting funny ideas and obviously needed a vacation.*

*Hell did not believe in vacations. Nor did Heaven. However, they did believe in waiting until one could devote one's full attention to a problem before addressing it, so they were content to let Aziraphale and Crowley play gardners and nannies if it kept them occupied in the meantime.

Naturally, this led to spies. Unfortunately, it did not, strictly speaking, lead to success.

*****

"Michael." 

Michael surveyed the puddle of ichor lapping around their feet. The ichor had once been their trusted servant,* but now it was an assault on the crisp white and luxurious dove grey of their firmament shroud.

*As in, Michael trusted the information that they could extract directly from the servant's mind, as it wasn't being muddled by initiative or thinking or interpretative inference. 

"Beelzebub." 

Beelzebub sneered at the simpering cherub flitting about Michael's head and shoulders. The cherub had once been a reliable imp,* but angelic corruption was grotesque and wouldn't even grant it a decent end.

*As in, Beelzebub relied on the imp's knowledge of what would happen if the task at hand wasn't concluded successfully.

Michael's radiance increased, illuminating the park in which they'd met, limning every tree and blade of grass. In response, Beelzebub's darkness deepened, rotting everything it touched.* Where their auras met, they recoiled with a hissing sound, rather like two cats disagreeing over the rightful ownership of a choice cushion or bit of tuna. 

*Except the ducklings. Nature had selected, and they were immune to the quirks, challenges, and vagaries of life in the between adversaries.

Michael, quite aware of the celestial timeline ticking away, broke the silence. "I was surprised," they said, "that you were so concerned about our numbers." The incessant hum of the cherub grated on their nerves, so they swatted it. It tumbled into the puddle of ichor and dissolved into a gooey version of its fundamental elements.* Michael continued, "Has Hell's legendary Legion lessened?" 

*The algae growth was quite impressive that year, causing scientists from three countries to take samples back to their labs. Unfortunately, the data they collected was patently impossible, and so they concluded that their samples had been irreversibly contaminated, disposed of them down the kitchen sink with a bit of water, and got quite inebriated. 

"Has Heaven's famed foresight forsaken you?" Beelzebub replied. "I seem to recall that you eschewed maps, describing them as unnecessary when one can 'unerringly perceive the true nature of reality.'"

Michael's eyes did not narrow. Beelzebub's mouth did not smirk. They maintained their air of indifferent neutrality with such force that all baked goods in the park turned into slightly soggy, salt-free saltines and all of the bottles of wine transmuted into flat tap water. 

Michael smiled, the gentle, kindly smile of a politician in public who, having been elected unopposed for decades, is being challenged by someone forty years their junior. "We're simply looking out for you and wanted to ensure that you hadn't wandered from the path. You do have a history of being led astray, and that won't do for Armageddon. The Great Plan is quite precisely laid out, and we do want to play fair, lest you accuse us of winning through foul means." 

"Likewise," Beelzebub said, "we are committed to laying a strong foundation for our final victory. We are attentive to the perceived advantages of our superior numbers and find that victory is detestable when does not come from a satisfying grapple with a true equal."

Both parties, of course, were lying through their uncanny simulacra of teeth. Nonetheless, each knew that the other was lying, which meant they were telling the truth. Don't think about it too hard -- that way lies headaches and tequila at 9 a.m.

"It would be a shame if everything weren't in perfect alignment for the day itself."

"Indeed."

And they each inclined their head, a moment of perfect accord resonating between them. 

*****

Of course, this was only the beginning. Knowledge of which resonances the demonic hordes would use for their travel and how many cherubs, angels, and seraphs were mustering for Armageddon does not an Arrangement make. One could argue -- and both Michael and Beelzebub would, if their superiors noticed their activities and had questions -- that each had gained more than they had given away, especially as the answers could have been obtained with a little bit of elbow-grease.*

*Elbow-grease from other people's elbows. Puddles of ichor notwithstanding, there's an infinite supply of imps and cherubs, and one of them would have gotten lucky.

However, it was a beginning, and what's begun in necessity often finds reason to happen again.

*****

Michael released their hold on their form, expanding into the void in a luxurious stretch. They coalesced back into themself and cracked their neck. Quite vulgar, they knew, but utterly satisfying in a way that they couldn't articulate without employing three forgotten languages and four dead grammars. 

"Michael!" Gabriel strode into their sanctuary, disrupting Michael's calm. "I told you that we simply must have those flaming swords, where are they?"

Michael's jaw did not clench. "As I told you in Report 9,242,402, Subsection Epsilon, Paragraph 927, there is a moratorium on forging more flaming swords due to the covenant dated 64 Anno Domini."

"Who would sign such terms? It deprives us of one of our weapons. After all, we're angels, we would be wielding them rightfully and righteously."

Michael's teeth did not grind. "All of the archangels were signatories to the agreement. If you recall, it was argued by some--" Gabriel "--that any forging technique requiring hellfire be verboten, lest we develop… an image problem. Sir."

"Quite right, of course. However, the Great Plan very clearly states that we have flaming swords; therefore, we must have a cache around here somewhere. You have eight years, five months, and three days -- find them!" With that commandment, Gabriel strode out, full of the confidence of a being who had just solved their problem by making it someone else's problem.

After all, they had neither a jaw nor teeth. Any clenching or grinding that might be happening would be purely imaginary, and angels have no imagination. 

****

Beelzebub emerged from the roiling lakes of Dis. There was something so stimulating about the putrescent stench. Ze breathed in and let the rotting molecules dance over zir essence, quivering at the foul miasma. 

Hastur squelched along the shoreline, getting closer with the inevitability of a tax collector. "There's a problem," he said. 

Beelzebub closed zir eyes. Perhaps this was a vision sent to torment zir. The squelching got louder, and Hastur continued, "There aren't enough pitchforks."

Beelzebub closed zir eyes harder and hummed. Fetid steam rose from the lake. Hastur kept speaking, "The lower hordes are rioting, they say they can't do this without pitchforks."

Ze opened zir eyes. "Why," ze said, "do you approach me with such petty issues? The hellhounds hunger; let them slip their leash and restore order."

Hastur took the deep breath of a man delivering unpleasant news that would become Not His Problem after the delivery. "The hounds' keepers are working with the hordes. They're threatening to yune-yun-ize." He grimaced at the unfamiliar word, letting the malodorous atmosphere scourge his tongue before squelching back down the shore, evacuating the blast radius. 

It wasn't, he reflected, altogether a bad thing. Dis hadn't had a new lake in an aeon, so it was due a bit of revivification. 

*****

Upon finding themselves surrounded by incompetence and with an ever-increasing workload, Michael and Beelzebub followed the path laid down by many functionaries before them: they found a discreet establishment that prided itself on respecting the anonymity of its patrons, procured two seats in the corner, and got absolutely, one-hundred percent shit-faced. 

They didn't set out intended to become intoxicated, and they would vehemently deny that "shit-faced" accurately described their state of being. Nonetheless, the discerning observer would describe them thusly, the utter lack of ethanol in their beverages notwithstanding. 

They are divinely-created beings. Ethanol does not, as they say, get the job done.

****

Michael strode through the quaint tavern, impressed by some of the ritual headdresses the humans were wearing. They checked for miraculous activity, as joy was noticeably increased in the wake of humans thus attired, but found not a whiff of it. Whoever was guiding their creations was doing a remarkable job at masking their presence and was due a commendation for their discretion. 

Not finding a table to their liking, they conjured up one, gleaming gold and round, and then set down their supplies: one martini glass, one jar of ambrosia, one silver spoon, and a toothpick. They spooned a tiny bit of ambrosia into the martini glass, appreciating its incandescence before spearing it with the toothpick and imbibing it. 

The glass and the toothpick were not, strictly speaking, necessary, but Michael did appreciate that they should continue to blend in during this time before Armageddon, at which time they would be able to unveil their radiance. It would be awkward if humans started kneeling in awe of their towering righteousness prior to the appointed day. 

Beelzebub slunk through the throngs of people, tasting the despair and hollowness permeating the bar. Perhaps ze should send some low-level incubi to this location to begin the path of temptation; anybeing that could not tempt these humans could be culled immediately instead of wasting more resources on 'nurturing their inner potential so that they could manifest the demon within.'*

*Hell had always advocated a hands-on style of mentorship and personnel management, and enterprising demons (being two in number) kept up to date on the latest scientific principles in order to increase efficiency. Non-enterprising demons (being the rest of them), deployed said scientific principles to depress the morale of their subordinates. 

Ze reached the table Michael had conjured in the corner and sneered. The angel was always so gaudy. Ze oozed into a chair, pulling a tarnished flask and chipped shot glass out of their frock coat. Ze poured a crimson beverage and then gulped it down, shuddering at the tart, refreshing taste. 

"Beelzebub," the angel said.

"Michael," the demon replied.

They each gulped down a second round of their respective drinks. Then they eyed the other's beverage.*

*In the meantime, their auras sulked in the corner, their dramatic clashes completely overshadowed by the strobing lights. 

Many rounds, and some subterfuge of less and less subtlety later, both beings were drinking an ambrosia-and-pomegranate cocktail, the golden sparkles of the ambrosia swirling through the deep red pomegranate like a galaxy through a puddle of blood. 

"It's not," Michael said, "that I am incapable of forging a flaming sword or swords. It's a basic craft, and any angel above a principality ought to be able to do it without any difficulties. However, it is against the rules, and Gabriel would be the first to call for my disincorporation should someone file a complaint." 

"At least you can cite precedent and paperwork," Beelzebub said glumly. "My lord believes in personal responsibility. I must locate and liberate a storehouse of seraph-forged steel that can be corrupted into a fiendish alloy and then twisted into pitchforks, even though we exhausted our supplies in the fourteenth century, or be squished like a newt."

Michael brightened. "Seraph-forged steel," they said, "how interesting."

"Only if you have an interest in metallurgy."

Michael scooped a scruple of ambrosia into their martini glass and then splashed a dram of pomegranate juice over it. They stirred it with a toothpick and then drank it very, very quickly, allowing it to metabolize them instead of the reaction proceeding in the more standard direction. 

"What if," they said, "I could locate a surplus of seraph-forged steel?" 

Beelzebub buzzed.

"Furthermore, it could be appropriated with minimal fuss immediately after forging."

Beelzebub BUZZED.

"After all, it would be nothing unusual if scrap metal from the construction of flaming swords was left at the smithy, where the forge was constructed around a previously unidentified lake of natural hellfire. Such a phenomenon would, of course, be exempted from the covenant, as it was not present on the list of verboten sites."

Beelzebub helped zirself to the archangel's martini glass, although ze didn't expend any energy measuring ingredients or stirring; ze had found that a glop of ambrosia and a glug of pomegranate juice worked well, and ze enjoyed the variation in experience that a poorly mixed libation brought. 

"One could say that creating such a lake and placing it in the path of an angel construed the ultimate temptation."

"Or one could say that the creation of such a lake, facilitating the Great Plan, was positively miraculous." 

Michael smiled. Beelzebub grimaced. 

All humans in their proximity abruptly became nauseous and headed for the loo. 

*****

It would be premature to say that the adversaries had entered into an Arrangement by this point in their respective linear chronologies. Nonetheless, they did find that they had arranged things to their mutual satisfaction and benefit once they had purged the intoxicants from their beings -- although they allowed themselves to maintain the deniability of inebriation through the construction of the hellfire forge and angelic smithy.*

*The singing never happened.

They both received commendations -- which is to say, Michael received more assignments that were to have been completed prior to their assigning and Beelzebub remained multi-dimensional and sentient -- for their work.

*****

Michael contemplated their desk, overflowing with requisition requests, armor analyses, and campaign strategies, and contemplated transmuting it all into a plague of toads. Oh, they wouldn't do it -- each piece of paperwork was scrupulously tracked, and the sheer number of forms required to document an improper disposal was daunting -- but they really did not understand why Gabriel remained wedded to such an antiquated system. There were so many efficiencies that could be realized, if they could just implement the small suggestions they had proposed. 

Sandalphon came in and then dropped a great auk's worth of paperwork on their desk and said, "Special delivery, straight from Gabriel to you!" Sandalphon beamed.*

*Sandalphon's expressions were uniformly positive and engaging, an inherent trait of angelkind. That the disinterested observer would compare Sandalphon's quite genuine smile to a shark's reveals nothing but questionable observation skills. 

Michael looked at the paperwork. They looked at Sandalphon. "I submitted my analysis for these reports three months ago," they said. "It's filed, in triplicate, in the Archives."

"Gabriel discovered that a fresh analysis is required. If you'll look at Form 37, Subsection Aleph, paragraph 33, you'll see that we had to adjust the anticipated resistance factor of the demonic hordes. We'll spend fewer resources than anticipated to defeat them, and so you need to adjust your projected estimates of rebellions, uprisings, and conspiracies for the next five millennia to budget staff accordingly. I'll come back for them later and take them to Gabriel. After all, many hands make light work!"

With that, Sandalphon swept out of Michael's domain, leaving the paperwork barricades a little higher and Michael's domain a little darker. 

*****

Beelzebub sat on their throne and contemplated the petitioner before zir. Ze knew that ze would grant the petition, but Asmosdeus, in zir opinion, needed an attitude adjustment. Ze was a prince of hell, and Asmosdeus a mere lordling; a certain amount of deference was called for in the situation. Did Asmosdeus forget that ze, Beelzebub, had personally invented the hierarchy that the demon was so rapidly ascending?

"My lord Prince," Asmodeus said, sonorous voice reverberating throughout the audience hall, "the intelligence gathered by the legion under my command has proven critical to our understanding of the enemy's plans, and our data collection has increased 66.6%--" not untrue, although Beelzebub wondered if an interrogator, such as the one Asmodeus seduced from Belial's own legions, had skewed the numbers "--and I therefore beseech your Lordship to allow me to broaden the application of my training techniques to two full legions" 

This would make Asmodeus a Baron of Hell, displacing Belphegor. Belphegor might phlegmatically decide that this was an opportunity to transition from management to artistic temptations on an individual level. However, there might also be infernos and the squishing of minor personnel involved -- one never knew with Belphegor, and they could ill-afford the loss of numbers at this juncture.

"Tell us, Asmodeus," Beelzebub said, "what will you do if you're granted the freedom to pursue your experiment?"

"Serve for the glory of Satan and the destruction of goodkind!" Asmodeus replied, eyes glowing the fervor of the fanatic underneath a formal lapine chapeau. 

Beelzebub contemplated the upstart. The fanatical demons never understood subordinating their causes to the Great Cause that was Armageddon; sometimes one accepted the small loss -- of time, of demons, of intelligence, of a soul -- for the greater Evil -- ensuring that they met the Adversary in the appointed place at the appointed time so that they could be ground into celestial nothingness. 

However, if ze didn't allow Asmodeus an increased reach, zir Lord would wonder why ze wasn't encouraging the development of the hordes.* Ze had the authority to challenge Asmodeus unto the point past annihilation, but that would initiate a cavalcade of challenges against Beelzebub that ze didn't have time to deal with, not with the End of Times a mere six years, five months, and thirty-three days away.

*When the Lord of Hell, Satan, Samael, the Most Unholy, Father of the Anti-christ, et cetera, et cetera wondered a thing, the subject of said wonderment often found themselves transmogrified into a puddle of screams. This was all well and good if you were doing the transmogrification, but it wasn't an optimal outcome if you were the transmogrified. 

"Granted," Baeelzebub intoned. 

*****

Thus, the great adversaries found themselves irked by toadies. This is not to say that they weren't each perfectly capable of managing such lickspittles; one did not ascend to their respective ranks by being incapable of stopping the ascent -- and causing the abrupt descent -- of others. However, this close to Armageddon it was a time management issue. There was too little time* and too many management problems. 

*You might think that being celestial-created beings, angels and demons could manipulate time, which is inextricably bound with the crude matter and physics they disregard so readily. However, to unmoor one's self from time is to unmoor one's self from existence, and angels and demons all considered their existence preferential state of affairs. The volunteers who had tried to manipulate time never weighed in with their opinions.

Having become tired of parks, as the ducks always attempted to nibble on their socks, and of establishments of libation, as the antics of crude matter could be… distracting, they found themselves frequently visiting an out of the way corner of eternity, Purgatory-adjacent and therefore accessible to them both, where they would not be disturbed.

****

Michael topped off the marshy bed of the Venus flytrap with a demiard of holy water. The plant was thriving, and Michael wondered if it was time to acquire a second specimen and introduce a pleasing symmetry by placing one on each side of the couch.

The room shivered and Beelzebub slunk in, trailing a miasma of offal and and decomposing flesh. 

“You are later than I anticipated,” Michael said. “I expect that you will be more punctual at Armageddon, the Final Cataclysm, the End of Times, et cetera.”

Beelzebub removed their fly crown and tossed it onto the couch, where it landed with a poof and the scent of mummy dust. “I would be more concerned with your inaccurate prognostications, were I you. An angel that can’t interpret the timeline -- what an erosion in your abilities. It’s undoubtedly why your brethren are seen to be more reliable.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed, and Beelzebub ignored them in favor of brewing zir preferred beverage.* Once zir tea was steeping, ze reached into zir pocket and pulled out a bottle of Coca-Cola, chilled in the river Styx, and passed it to Michael, who had discovered a preference for the tingly sensation of effervescent beverages, which reminded them of ambrosia without the nasty hangover interfering with the re-assembly of one's own firmament molecules.

*A nice pot of Assam. It surprised Michael, too. 

The angel didn’t thank Beelzebub, but they did summon a table and ottomans in muted maroon instead of their preferred gold. 

They sank into the couch on their respective sides, currently distinguished by the presence of the Venus flytrap -- Michael -- and the eternally burning rotting heart of their first hellhoud -- Beelzebub. They then proceeded to ignore each other with their feet propped up and respective beverages in hand. Their silence could, if one ignored the fizz in the aether indicative of matter and anti-matter colliding, be characterized as companionable. 

Michael broke the silence. "My powers of perception are unaltered. It was your behavior that deviated from the course laid before you," they said. 

Beelzebub smirked. "Archangel," ze said, "prevaricating suits you." 

Michael's head fell back against the couch cushion. "Well, if my powers are being strained, it's because I have to distort them out of their alignment when dealing with the fiendish, excuse my strong language, amount of paperwork involved in getting everybeing to blessed Megiddo. My colleagues fail to understand the simple system that I propose to ameliorate the situation, and then they just give me more to make up for their own deficiencies."

Beelzebub shrugged. "Annihilate them."

"Paperwork," Michael said. "It has to be filed in septuplicate, each copy identifically scribed, when an angelic being is rendered out of existence."

Beelzebub shuddered. "Why? All that's left once someone is annihilated is ensuring that the goods formerly in their possession are properly redistributed."

Michael looked at zir, horror radiating from their being. "How does one sing of the inexorable path to the triumph of Good if one does not know what has come to pass?"

Beelzebub laughed. It was a dry, croaky sound of a being who nominally knew what a laugh was, and yet had never encountered one in the course of their existence. "Screams, archangel, are sufficient accompaniment to the recapitulation of Hell's glorious triumph." 

Michael didn't respond, too busy drinking Coca-Cola and letting the bubbles tickle their approximation of a tongue. "Really," they continued, "If the paperwork would cease replicating at every possible moment, I could do my job. It's irksome that I'm being increasingly relegated to filling out paper, when it properly ought to be the task of Gabriel's direct subordinate, especially as the fundamental assumptions are flawed, and it is from these assumptions that I must build my analysis. There is an order to things, and they fail to appreciate our proper division of labor, which is dictated by the characteristics embodied in us during our creation by our Creator."

"The paperwork is not replicating," Beelzebub said, with the smugness of a being whose paperwork was always punishment for someone else, "other beings are replicating it. You should take action. I can't, because erasing the mistake that is Asmodeus' existence would result in an infinite parade of upstarts challenging me once it was known that I would enter the field of combat once more, and with the rush to Armageddon I can't indulge in that kind of holiday."

They continued to drink their respective beverages, gloomily contemplating the wretchedness that impedes their work. 

"Inform me if my understanding is in error," Michael said, "but you have no objection to Asmodeus meeting an unfortunate end. This is correct, yes?"

"Yes."

"What if your operative was to be given a test to infiltrate the Heaven to abscond with certain plans and analyses. And what if said operative were to encounter holy water defenses*?"

*Angels did not, as one might imagine, employ holy water frivolously, as it was a rather inelegant solution. It was much more efficient, they'd found, to interrogate any intruder and then let Hell deal with the practical -- and messy -- aspects of demon disposal.

"I would say that such an assignment hasn't been bestowed on a demon three centuries -- the unfortunate disintegration of the last attempt deterred even the most ambitious of demons."

"But if were a necessary step towards the forthcoming Great War, then any demon would have to take it. And if they were to get far enough that they were to trigger the last ring of defenses… well, that would be because they're simply talented."

Beelzebub buzzed.

"If they were to disintegrate over the documents in question, fouling them forever and making them painful to handle when they were disturbed, which would, of course, only be discovered when an angel came to father them up, that would be quite demonic, would you not say?"

Beelzebub looked at Michael. "Or," ze said, "one might say it's a miracle that the hierarchy of hell became so much more stable."

Michael smiled. "One might say so," they agreed. 

*****

And so, an Arrangement was born. The next time our adversaries found themselves stymied they simply expedited solutions. 

If asked, they would state that small compromises on the path to ultimate victory were logical, served to facilitate the arrival of Armageddon, the Final Cataclysm, the End of Times, et cetera, and were immaterial in the face of their imminent ultimate victory. 

Perhaps they even believed it.


End file.
